Catch
by deleerium
Summary: Watanuki never asks why. It's not part of their routine. For time line reference, I imagine this occurs at some point shortly before chapter 203/4 - no spoilers, though.


There is nothing unique in the way the bell on the shop door jingles, or the clatter of shoes in the entry -- they are sounds that any customer would make. It's only when the girls sing-song a "Welcome!" and Watanuki hears the flat rumble of Doumeki's response that everything feels familiar, a little annoying and perfectly routine.

Today is no different than any other. Watanuki remains in a languid sprawl on the chaise, the pipe in one hand long forgotten, white silk riding too high on the inside of a pale thigh. He doesn't bother to sit up, only listens for the footsteps, turning his gaze to the doors as they slide open.

"I brought chuu-toro. And kuruma-ebi," Doumeki says, skipping a greeting entirely as his gaze sweeps the boy lounging on the sofa. His expression unchanging, he drops his gaze and sets the bags down on the table.

Watanuki sighs and sits up, the silk of his kimono reluctantly following the flat lines of his body. "Eggs and flour for the tempura?"

Doumeki drops his gaze, large hands fumbling with one of the bags.

Impatiently, Watanuki leans forward. He pushes at Doumeki's hands and pauses, eyes wide as he snatches Doumeki's wrist. Doumeki tugs, but Watanuki's grip is quickly cruel, nails digging in as he forces the hand over, palm up, so he can see.

The lines of Doumeki's mouth tighten, a mere millimeter of movement, but he leaves the hand where it is.

A frown pinches Watanuki's face as he stares, skimming his fingertips over a callous. Not just one, but layers, each new mound of protective skin built upon the old. Still reddened, as if the newest layer had only recently been created -- raised by the measured snap of a bow. He chokes when he tries to speak, gaze jerking up to meet Doumeki's. "You still..."

Doumeki snatches his hand back, easily breaking the grip. He holds the hand in a protective curl against his chest for a second before he casually lets it drop. He straightens, gaze locked with Watanuki's, his face as unreadable as ever. They stare at one another, the silence screaming with unanswered questions. "I'm going to take a bath," Doumeki announces and turns away, long legs eating up the distance to the door. "I want miso, too." This last words thrown carelessly over his shoulder as he disappears around the corner.

Watanuki is too stunned to answer, one hand flailing up from his knee in a protest that is far too late, lost on the now empty room. This is not part of their routine. He does not notice these kinds of things. Has never wanted to notice, has in fact spent years eradicating those annoying, undefinable emotions. In their place he has achieved a delicate balance between aloof tolerance and concentrated denial. But this discovery shatters his carefully constructed walls and as they crumble, it is the achingly familiar _WHY_ that comes screaming to the surface, as fresh and raw as ten hours in the rain on the other end of a ribbon. _WHY DO YOU KEEP DOING THIS?_

And still, as always, there is no answer, because Watanuki does not ask it. Does not want to know why. Why, in all the time between that day and this one, why does Doumeki still practice every day with his bow?

....................

Watanuki doesn't cook food, food surrenders to him -- especially when he's in the grip of deniable emotion. Tonight is no exception. His hand is white-knuckled where it grips the whisk, beating at the tempura batter. Pots clatter with defiance as he sets them on the stove, ingredients are quick to leap obediently into his hands.

He knows the moment Doumeki steps into the doorway. Knows that if he turns, he will see Doumeki in his yukata, a towel around his neck, arms crossed over his chest, leaning against the door-frame. He can feel Doumeki staring at the ties of his apron as he moves around the kitchen.

Watanuki makes him wait a full five minutes, setting the oil to heat and chopping the vegetables into submission before he abruptly turns around, cheeks flushed from the heat of the stove or the emotions knocking around in his chest - it doesn't matter. "Why?" he spits out, knowing Doumeki knows what he's asking.

Doumeki is leaning against the door, his hands white-knuckled where they grip the ends of his towel. "Because I don't believe in forever," he says, as if reciting a prayer so familiar it's lost its meaning.

Watanuki hurls a carrot top in his direction, missing him by a mile.

Doumeki lets go of the towel, crosses his arms over his chest, and leans against the doorway even harder.

....................

Watanuki lays his chopsticks across his empty bowl and sits back on his heels, his gaze intent on Doumeki's profile. "I do not understand you."

Doumeki snorts and helps himself to another serving of rice.

....................

The night is neither hot nor cold, more the lukewarm comfort of a late summer evening. The smoke from Watanuki's pipe sifts slowly to the ceiling, only the sound of Doumeki's sake glass set firmly on wood interrupts the quiet hum of the season's last cicadas.

With a practiced motion, Watanuki sweeps his sleeve out of the way, lifts the bottle of sake and refills Doumeki's glass. He sets the bottle back in its place between them, but his gaze follows Doumeki's hand, first up as it lifts the glass to drink, then down to its resting spot on Doumeki's knee.

He's noticed again. Not callouses this time, but a difference. A difference between them. Watanuki's gaze is fixed on the folds of Doumeki's yukata where it has slipped, exposing a bare foot, a muscled calf, a sturdy knee. The skin is dark, made darker by the fine dust of hair and the moonlight filtered by the tree.

A frown pinches Watanuki's features as he stares. His gaze moves to his own legs and he flicks the edge of his yukata aside, baring a long leg to the hip. His feet are bare, the arch more pronounced, the width narrower but at least as masculine as Doumeki's. At the ankle the comparison crumbles. Watanuki's ankle is delicate, his calf slender, his knee thin, his thigh endless. His skin more like cream -- moon-lit, rather than moon-darkened.

He glances back at Doumeki's leg and Doumeki's yukata has slipped some more, baring the width of his thigh. The difference is even more pronounced as Watanuki looks back and forth. His own leg is not feminine, exactly, despite the pale skin and long length. But Doumeki's is...something else entirely. Unmistakably adult. And male.

Watanuki sighs and flicks his yukata back over his lap, setting down his pipe. He draws both legs up on the porch, crossing ankle over ankle as he leans forward, elbows on his knees, chin propped in his palm, staring into the dark. "You grew up when I wasn't looking," he says, his voice quiet, the first words that have been spoken in some time.

Doumeki picks up the bottle sake and refills Watanuki's cup before adding more to his own. "Pay more attention, next time." He takes a drink, and adds, "Idiot."

The last word is gentle enough to make Watanuki glance in his direction and he catches Doumeki tugging his yukata back into place.

....................

Kohane's hand pauses while mixing, her head tilted to one side when the shop bell jingles. Her smile is fleeting as she resumes her motions and glances up at Watnuki, who is hovering patiently over a boiling pot on the stove. "He's here."

Watanuki doesn't have to ask who it is. He listens for the familiar, measured tread in the hallway. "You're late."

Doumeki sets the bags on the kitchen table and shakes the rain from his head and shoulders just as Watanuki turns to face him.

"Gah! Get out, mongrel," Watanuki snaps, shaking a spoon at him, but the words lack true heat. He turns back to the stove with a grumble. "The bath water is already hot."

Doumeki saves his smirk for the emptiness of the hallway, hands already working open the buttons of his shirt.

....................

Dinner does not have the same sparkle that it did back then, but there is still an inordinate amount of alcohol consumed and more than one smile around the table. Kohane leaves early, arms weighed down with bento, and Doumeki and Watanuki leave Mokona snoring in an empty rice bowl as they make their way to the porch.

Doumeki can feel the quiet waves of melancholy coming from Watanuki, but notes they are softer than last year. And the year before."You miss her."

Watanuki nods, head turned away as he takes longer than usual to load the slender pipe, dark bangs falling over his eyes. "It is getting harder to remember."

Doumeki fills both their glasses to the rim and sets down the bottle, cradling his glass on his thigh, waiting for the silence. The strike of flint echoes in the dark and the first swirls of blue smoke spiral around them. He likes this, the way their silences have grown up -- from rare, to awkward, to comfortable, to comforting. He likes the way they are both reluctant to interrupt it, both speaking in quiet murmurs.

"Where do you practice?" Watanuki asks after a while.

"The temple grounds." Holding out his now empty glass, Doumeki waits until it's been refilled before adding, "It's more than practice."

Watanuki sets down the bottle, fingers skimming the delicately painted edges before he looks at Doumeki, waiting for the rest of it.

"It is meditation," Doumeki says.

Taking a long pull on the pipe, Watanuki sends a blue smoke spiral spinning into the dark. When he looks at Doumeki again, his eyes are heavy, his smile reflecting his growing power. "What better place for meditation than a shop between two worlds?"

Doumeki's thoughts go quietly still, the sound of his own heart beating steady and strong under his ribs. "Hn."

....................

The first time he hears the distinct thud of an arrow hitting a target, Watanuki flinches and hot oil pops over the edge of the pan, the drops like brands on the back of his hand. He hisses and moves to the sink, running cool water over the tiny burns. He wonders if his invitation was a step. Wonders in what direction.

In the silent moments between the water boiling and the sizzle of the iron on the stove, Watanuki can hear the creak of a longbow being drawn to Kai. He holds his breath - hands held well clear of the hot oil - until he hears the arrow strike the target again.

He only imagines the faint burst of light from the window.

....................

Watanuki rounds the corner to announce that dinner is ready and collides with Doumeki. The sound of a dropped bow echoes down the porch. Watanuki's palm is hot, pressed against the skin bared by the open neck of Doumeki's keiko-gi - his attempt to catch himself too late, his shoulders already steadied, warm under Doumeki's hands.

The moment brings up memories and Watanuki chases them with a rare, relentless panic. They are difficult to catch. Most have faded to a colorful blur, but he is certain of one thing. "You always were good at catching me," he murmurs, staring at the sheen of sweat on Doumeki's neck. One drop inches towards Watanuki's fingertip, bursting as it touches skin. Slowly Watanuki pulls back his hand.

Doumeki drops his hands from Watanuki's shoulders and stoops to pick up his bow, crouching for a moment at Watanuki's feet. "No, I wasn't," he murmurs, dark head bent towards the floor.

"You were." Watanuki leans, hand outstretched, fingers fluttering and hesitant over the bent head. "Always." His hand stills, then drops gently to slide through the damp, dark hair. "In the end."

Doumeki shifts, his entire being leaning into the caress.

FIN


End file.
